Big beauty, little biter

So small a creature, it was kind of laughable. But damn, that bite did sting. Or was it that sting that bit? With this particular little bullet of an angry bee, I wasn’t sure.

The hill tombs of Myra

My brother and I, far-from-fresh after a few days on the Lycian Way, had hitch-hiked across Turkey, headed to Demre to see the ancient hill-tombs of Myra. Our third ride heard our destination and paused, dubiously.

“Is Demre not nice?” I asked him.

“No no, Demre is nice. Demre is okay. But nearby is something better. You should go Kekova. My wife and I, this is where we go for our vacation.” He was considering something. Looked at his watch. “I am already a little late, but it is not too far, I can drive you there.”

Cevrelians!

This is the hospitality of the Turks. To pick up a pair of sun-singed hitch-hikers, carry them across a chunk of his country, and then make himself even later to get them quickly to a place with no timetable. I deeply love Turkey. I wish I could sort the Islamophobic masses of America into people who just haven’t gotten to see the truth, and the genuine jackasses. The latter are on their own, but the former should all wander around Turkey for a week or a year.

We eventually convinced our friend that we could flag down another ride, if he would show us which road. He pulled over across from it and flagged down a van to make sure we got there. We waved goodbye to another in the chain of wonderful Turkish people we’d met, and squished in with a family of even more.

What we were looking at when it began

They dropped us off in Çevreli, a town too adorable for quotidian orthography. We walked past greenhouses of tomatoes for tomorrow’s kahvalti, stone houses built by inhabitants’ ancestors, and these two giggling lads. Up the hill we paused, shocked by the beauty of this planet we were serendipitously born on, and enjoyed the breath of the wind.

Until the wind attacked. A piece of the airy realm, curiosity congealed into belligerence, wedged itself in my brother’s hair. Finally flung free, it rested a mere moment on my finger, long enough to sting or bite or maul. Slapped down again, he wouldn’t give up until crushed beneath a well-hiked heel.

Mean little bastard, he was

“You should probably rinse your finger, in case it put some of that threat-marking scent on you.” My brother remembered farmland lessons of bee’s ability to induce the aggression of their peers with pheromone markers. I rinsed my hand, rubbing well, careful on the spot that was already beginning to swell.

Not enough. The next bee attacked about five steps later. And so began an awkward, incredulous, this-is-ridiculous-but-kinda-freaky-anyway intermittent run/trot across the Turkish landscape. We reckoned we’d escaped them, then came around the corner to see the next batch of fields. Rows and rows of bee hives.

Oh! I’ll be going to my other homeland this year to sort out some legalities with mums properties over there and get my own retirement set up. I love that you love it. It’s a beautiful place full of mostly beautiful people.

It makes me happy that you were shown such hospitality. Minus the turkish bee. Although to be fair it did make me laugh.

If you’d asked anyone there they’d have slapped some yoğurt on it and told you you’d be right 😀

I didn’t know you had ties to Turkije! I’m jealous. Buzzing with jealousy, in fact. And I had no idea yogurt would help! We did discuss the potential of honey on it, and bought some, but ended up just eating as much as we could, putting it in all those marvelous tulip classes of cai that show up whenever you sit down in Turkey…

Yes, ha!! I mean, unfortunately (fortunately?) this moment has found itself into my life more often than I’d like to admit. The last time was last week actually, when I was running through the Roman Forum trying desperately to find my way back to the ticket office, dodging puddles of mud and rain and awkwardly hopping down overwhelmingly non ADA compliant ancient stone steps to find our missing tour guide for being let in to the House of Augustus. As I was panting and wondering how long I could keep up this pace in the name of ensuring the completeness of our students’ visit to the Roman Forum, I also wondered how long I would care enough to motivate myself to engage in this level of fairly ridiculous physical activity in the name of Roman ruins.

Hmm. I had one on the bicycle a couple weeks ago, riding through stopped rush hour traffic in downtown SF, an inch or so to spare on either side, careful not to bump any cars (cuz Americans get all bent out of shape about their cars I’ve noticed). It was kind of tense, kind of maddening, and then I noticed that a much higher percentage of cars than normal were emitting large clouds of marijuana smoke. I think because it was raining so people couldn’t stand on the sidewalk and smoke, so they were sitting in traffic to do it instead. It made my ride ever so much more pleasant, knowing that some of these traffic victims were pleasantly stoned instead of tweaking on road rage aggression.

Ah! What a story!! I wouldn’t even be brave enough to be biking in downtown SF. So I am completely sympathetic of whatever obstacles (of which I imagine there are many) in the process. My favorite from this comment, though, is ‘ cuz Americans get all bent out of shape about their cars I’ve noticed’. Great. ;b

One of my favorite things to tell Tour Members about is the Italian practice of leaving their cars out of gear and without a parking brake, so that the people parallel parking next to them can just sort of push them out of the way when they park. I watch the incomprehension phase evolve into dilated pupils as they imagine someone casually scratching their bumper, and have to stifle a laugh every time.

May all your problems be so First World! (I think we should print that in birthday cards.)

Wow, I didn’t even know that! Learn something new every day (literally). I always wondered how they could get away with double and triple parking, but the whole thing is just so crazy to me I guess I try not to give it too much thought. I’ll never forget my ex-boyfriend (Italian) on our second date, pulling up on the concrete island of the large ring road in Bologna, turning off the ignition and looking at me and asking, “Do you think it is ok to park here?” And me looking back at him in disbelief. HA!

It is indeed! A big jar of honey was actually my next stop. It was delicious, and felt extra interesting, even a tad beautiful, to think that we were incorporating the work of our little flying friend into our breakfasts.